Sweet Beliefs
by lachryphage
Summary: A prolific serial killer finds herself falling in love with Ludwig Beilschmidt, while her best friend Matthew has trouble with his own love life and goes through a string of relationships. Gore and yaoi that actually has a plot.
1. Introduction

The world's most prolific serial killer finds herself falling in love with Ludwig Beilschmidt, while her friend Mattie has troubles in his own love-life.

Rated M for descriptive sex and murder scenes. Don't worry, they're not very often, but when they do crop up they're VERY detailed. Also, there is occasional (but extreme) swearing.

The majority of the sex scenes will be yaoi (guy on guy), so if you're not into that, please don't read. Also, if you have a problem with blood, this story is not for you.

The main characters are the serial killer, Lyric Gray, who is an OC of mine, and Matthew Williams (Canada).

Human names will be used because the characters are people from their countries, not representations.

* * *

><p>Other characters will include:<p>

Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany)

Alfred F. Jones (America)

Gilbert Beilschmidt (Prussia)

Roderich Edelstein (Austria)

Elizabeta Edelstein (Hungary)

Arthur Kirkland (England)

Francis Bonnefoy (France)

Ivan Braginski (Russia)

* * *

><p>More characters will probably crop up throughout the story, but probably won't any major parts in it.<p>

A word of warning: This is gonna be a REALLY bizarro fanfic.

HERE WE GO!


	2. Your Truths

**MATTHEW**

_"Can you see your truths are not mine anymore?"_

I lean over the bathroom sink, trying to focus my attention on the blond hair falling past my face and not on the feverish feeling threatening to capture my body. A single curled piece is longer than all the other strands and it brushes the white porcelain of the sink gently, wetting itself on lingering droplets of water as it lightly trembles. I am shaking. I realize this in the moment as I watch the hair quake. I am waiting. Waiting for the silence to end, as I know it must.

It seems so cold in this tiny bathroom, yet I am sweating and my hands are hot as they grip the rim of the sink. There is a desperation to vomit into the basin, but I know I won't, and this somehow makes it worse. I am getting vertigo from looking into the sink, past the depths of the drain. I want to cry, I want to run, I want to sleep, I want to _please just let me retch!_ I squeeze my eyes shut so tight that I see white.

From the other room, beyond the closed door, there is a girlish giggle. I start at it, knowing that the screams are about to begin again. I clench the edge of the porcelain in anticipation; it pushes back painfully against my fingernails. A moment more and there is a piercing shriek, almost a howl, of pain so loud it hurts my ears. Abruptly I let go of the counter and drop to the floor, my hands clutching through my hair to get at my ears, perhaps I can stop the noise from getting in. Why does she have to do this?

But the sound of this utter agony has already infiltrated my mind, it did a long time ago on the first night I saw her lose to the demons of her own desires. Scribbled through the screaming is her joyous laughter. That night was worse though, worse than all the others were. It hadn't been planned; she just cut through them like a farmer does with a sickle through the wheat. Their blood painting the room, drenching us both like water from fountains… The wail of the tortured soul dies down to almost inaudible sobs.

He will die soon, this poor man that I didn't even have the heart to look at when we found him by the side of the road. It will be better for all of us if he would just go… but Lyric is good at this and he will not die until she wants him to. The cold of the floor seems to radiate up through my legs and bottom into the rest of me, leaving me shivering in fits again. I want to cry. Why do I still help her?

"Please…" The man's voice is a hoarse whisper, his few ounces of remaining strength invested in that one word. I can almost feel Lyric smiling.

"It's alright, sir, we can be done now if you like," Her voice is sweet, but not sickeningly so. She talks as if she were talking to an elderly relative whom she planned to help care for. Reassuring, kind, gentle, loving. "Thank you," She says sincerely. A quiet slicing tells me that he is finally free.

I stand up quickly, knowing that is my queue to enter this tragedy. The sudden movement drains blood from my head and for a moment, I am dizzy, and swoon. I try to regain composure but find myself trembling again. This time I will tell her. I will tell her she needs to stop, that I won't help her anymore; if she doesn't stop, I will have to turn her in. I open the door to a scene of gore.

The room has a fresh spray of crimson over the old brown stains of nights before. Across the floor and occasionally sticking to the wall are small flecks of flesh, completely unrecognizable. The bits become larger as they reach the center of the room where sits their origin: a broken figure of what is left of a man, no more than pieces and fabric holding him together. Cradling this mess is a woman, barely more than a girl, who is colored red. She is crying.

Lyric hears the door creak quietly as it opens and looks up toward me. Her tears make clean streaks of white skin through the slick blood that is painted across her cheeks. Her eyes are large and wet with grief, her pupils nearly eclipsing her gray-green irises. Her lips tremble as her tears flow.

"Mattie?" Her voice cracks as she says my name. "Mattie, I-I think I loved him…" She manages out before racking sobs begin to shake her small frame again. She buries her face into the ruined man she holds.

It is this sudden innocence that tells me why I help her. I see once again my best friend since childhood in need of comfort instead of the sadistic fiend I had begun to envision in the bathroom.

I go to her, my shoes slapping quietly through the puddles of gore, and hug her gently. She lets go of her mess and clutches at me for comfort like a child does. She will forget about him by tomorrow, she always forgets and moves on. She always thinks she loves them by the end of it, it always ruins her to see them go, but in the end, it's alright. Always.

"Shhh…" I whisper to her.

"Mattie, I'm so tired," her voice is shattered, akin to the sound of the dying man.

"You have to get clean first."

"What about _him_?" She doesn't even know his name.

"He's alright now; I'll make sure to send his ashes up."

She holds on to me a little longer, her nails digging at my shoulder, her chin resting in the crook of my neck.

"Okay," She whispers.

I help her up and over to the bathroom. She stumbles in and closes the door behind her. She is exhausted by now, but will strip, leaving her sullied clothes in a garbage bag, take a shower, and pull on something clean. I must change as well, our embrace having left her bloody imprint on my shirt, but I must gather the remnants of our visitor together and get him into the incinerator first. This is my half of the murders, making sure she can get away with it.

Across from the bathroom, next to the stair-well that leads up and away, is a closet. I stride across the cement floor, feet splashing, and open it. I take a shovel from it. I go over and open the door to the incinerator behind the ragged mess in the middle of the room, it has been warming up since we arrived and is now ready to accept its gift of flesh. Behind my temples is a deep, pounding headache; the feverish sweat beginning to subside and transform into a simpler pain. I lean the shovel against the wall and grab the chair which the man had been tied to, most of him still managing to stay on. Heaving it up, trying not to spill any more of the mess onto the floor, I lug the chair and its occupant to the incinerator. The door is not quite large enough to allow the whole chair to pass within, so I begin to shove the chair forcefully through. The wood snaps under the pressure; the warmth of the fire blasts past me, making me sweat. The body on the chair is squeezed in as well, beginning to cook from the heat it pops and sizzles, the blood boiling.

One final push gets the whole thing through and it drops to the bottom with a thud and a shower of crackling sparks. With the shovel I scoop what remains are left on the floor in with the majority. By the time I am done my forehead and back are slick with sweat. I use my sleeve still stained from hugging Lyric to wipe my face. I am about to do so again when I realize that I must have just smeared more blood across myself. Sighing heavily, I close the door of the incinerator and set it on its body-burning cycle. I return the shovel to its closet without cleaning it and head up the stairs, away from this accursed basement.

Each step I take is heavy, my feet leaving bloody prints on every tread. At the top there is a trap door in the style of a cellar. I pause a moment, knowing that it will be very heavy to lift the door upward and out. My breath is labored, each mouthful of air dragging through my esophagus and across my lungs. I close my eyes. Downstairs I can hear the water of the shower running and I decide suddenly that I don't want to have to see Lyric for as long as possible. This jolts me to act, and I heave the door outward, letting in a rush of fresh night air. I breathe deeply, and take the last few steps upward.

The forest is black in contrast to the red and yellow light spilling from the basement below, but the sky above is glittering. Billions of stars are scattered above, making the heavens gray compared to the towering dark of the surrounding pines. The familiar sight brings me for a moment back to my childhood and the winters spent in the Canadian wilderness. I know that behind me, beyond the demonic cellar, is the cabin in which I spent those frozen months. I find that I am crying.

Pursing my lips, I squeeze my eyes and try to stop the tears before they become serious. I go to the little red car parked in the driveway of the cabin which I can see now that my eyes have adjusted. The light layer of snow crunches beneath my feet as I walk, the sound echoing in the silence. The car is not locked, and inside on the driver's seat is my favorite red hoodie. I take off the bloodied shirt I am wearing and pull on the hoodie over my bare skin. Its familiar scent is calming.

Closing the car door disrupts the quiet more than the crunching snow did. I lean against the hard, cold frame of the car and pull out a joint and a lighter from the large pocket in the middle of my hoodie. The sudden flare of the tip when it is lighted matches the colour of the light spilling from the open cellar door. Taking a drag from it, the inhaled smoke swirls through my lungs. It is more calming than any memory of childhood. I close my eyes, wishing to sleep, trying to forget that soon Lyric will return and I will have to drive for many hours before reaching the hotel. Just for a moment I weep.


	3. Distance

**LYRIC**

_"Now I understand why you keep me at a distance…"_

We arrived home the next day. We had driven through the night, reaching the border in the glow of morning light. It was a smooth crossing made easy by Matt's Nexus Pass: a handy little card that makes travel between the US and Canada quick and painless. I wasn't even awake as we crossed the border, the exhaustion of the previous night's deed still clinging to my mind.

I woke up as we were entering the city, the suburbs drifting away behind us as the buildings began to rise. The towering skyscrapers, thousands of people walking the streets, the horrible traffic dominated by the cabbies, the smell of thickly acrid pollution: this was home. At least, it has been home for nearly five years now. New York City.

As we drove into the underground parking garage of our apartment building I still felt groggy. We took the elevator up to the level the flat was on, my eyelids and limbs like leaden weights. Before Matt could finish unlocking the door Alfred had flung it open, surprising both of us. In my misted tired state I thought it more cruel than funny. I stumbled up the stairs to the upper level of our flat and dropped on my bed, falling asleep quickly.

Now I lie staring up at the ceiling of my bedroom, the gentle white swirled textures as familiar as the patterns of my own skin. I get up slowly, taking my time as I slide my legs over to the edge. When I finally stand I stretch, feeling the remnants of tension slip away. I go to the large window that dominates one wall of my bedroom and draw back the heavy drapery. Beyond is the whole expanse of New York; the tall dark scrapers filled with squares of light rising into the evening sky, the cars dragging their luminescence through the streets. Thousands of people, always moving. The sun is like a fat gob of blood sinking behind the silhouettes of the buildings; the beautiful sunset a gift from the pollution. I take in the city and feel a gentle contentedness fill my soul.

I pad softly in my stocking feet across the carpet. In the hallway I trail my fingers gently over the railing that separates the open space of the living room below from the upper level. I can tell that Matt and Alfred have been out, or else the flat would not be this quiet. I continue down the hallway and descend the stairs in relaxed manner, letting each step down slink, the soft pajama material of my pants gently flowing against each ankle. I love it when I have the flat to myself. I skip the bottom step, it always creaks, and go to sit on my chair in the living room. I am just settling myself in to read the newspaper I found on the coffee table when I hear the door handle jiggle as someone unlocks it. I turn around in my seat, watching expectantly.

Alfred flings open the door, it swings around and the doorknob contributes to the developing dent in the wall behind it, but he takes no notice. "HEEEEYYYY!" He calls out as loud as he can. "WAKEYWAKEY, YOUR LIFE'S AT STAKEY!" He is grinning mischievously and looking upstairs across the railing at my open bedroom door. He thinks he's waking me.

"I'm right here," I say softly. He looks down to where I sit, a flash of startled fear in his eyes before the moment of recognition.

"Damn it, Lyric, why do you have to be so creepy sometimes?" He laughs jokingly.

Matt comes in behind him holding bags that I hope are filled with groceries, but knowing how Alfred shops it's more likely they contain cheap liquor. "I thought I was the sneaky one…"

Alfred starts again. "Holy fuck, you two! That's not funny," he says swinging around to glare at his brother.

Matt smiles gently. "No, of course not."

I swing over the back of the chair and land quietly behind it on my feet. I go over and help Matt carry the 'groceries' to the kitchen. "What do you guys want to do tonight? Watch a movie?"

Alfred follows us into the kitchen and leans on the doorframe. "We should actually be packing."

"Packing?"

"Yep, while you and Mattie were off creating havoc, I got bored and bought us all a vacation to Australia."

I turn from the kitchen table to look at him in astonishment. "What? Are you serious?"

He laughs, "Fuck yeah!"

"Dude that is so awesome!" We high-five and he pulls me in for a bro-hug. We're both grinning.

"Excited?"

As answer I simply shake my head, laughing, "Hell, I love it when you get bored, Al."

Behind us, Matt continues to put away the groceries. I glance over my shoulder at him, just to make sure he's smiling too, that he's happy and wants to go. He sees me look, and smiles wanly at me.

"This'll be fun, won't it Mattie?" I say in the peppiest voice I can, trying to cheer him up.

He just forces that false grin a little wider. "Yeah, it'll be great."

I grab a can of beer for Alfred and me and follow him into the living room. "C'mon, let's watch a scary movie tonight!" I plop down on the couch, trying to push away my growing worry for Matt for one more night. _Just one more_, I tell myself, _I'll talk to him about it tomorrow…_


	4. Far Away

**LYRIC**

_"How could I leave you far away from the nightmare?"_

I sit low in my seat, as low as I can. My legs are reaching below the seat in front of me, pushing at the bags the other passenger has stowed below it. It's not very comfortable sitting like this, it had been, but now my back is sore from being bent sharply so near the top of my spine. Yet, because it had once been comfortable I remain in this position, waiting for it to become again what it once had been. I tap my feet idly on the baggage that blocks my body from sinking lower. I don't even get a window seat.

I look at Matthew sitting on my right. He stares out the window, watching as the ocean goes by below us. I suppose the window seat wouldn't be any better, seeing as the Pacific Ocean hardly varies, but it would be nice to get a better view when landing. Matthew stares out the window, he looks totally out of it, listening to his iPod with a blank expression. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply once before settling a bit in his seat. I hope he doesn't try to sleep.

He reaches into his pocket, switching off his iPod and gently pulls the buds from his ears before putting them in his pocket too. He looks over at me and smiles wanly when he sees that I'm watching him. He looks so melancholic: pale blond hair and cream skin lacking any flush of emotion, his eyes blue and tired look back at me from behind his cold glasses frames. I think something has been troubling him lately, but I can't possibly imagine what. For the first time it finally seems as if everything is working out, as if everything were alright.

I sit up and force myself to speak and break this stretching quiet that has only been disturbed by the snores of sleeping passengers and occasionally Alfred's raucous laugh reaching for us from behind. "What do you think he's doing back there?" I ask.

Matthew shrugs. "I dunno, probably flirting with some girl."

"Oh. Yeah, probably." Maybe it's something I've done. I don't want him to be angry with me, but there's no reason for him to be so he isn't, right? "Pretty nice of him to buy the tickets, huh? I mean, it's nice to have a vacation and I've never been to Australia."

"Yeah. Really nice." He gives me another watery smile and looks back out the window wistfully.

I bite my lip. He doesn't seem angry, just sad. So sad.

Maybe getting away for a while will do him some good. It was a wonderful surprise to arrive back home at our apartment not only to find Alfred actually waiting for our return but having bought us plane tickets to Australia as well. It was the perfect thing to do for the semester we were all taking off from school.

I sigh as he puts his ear-buds back in and turns on his iPod. I slouch back down in my seat, but not as low and uncomfortable as before and look sullenly around the cabin of the plane. Most of the people are asleep or watching the in-flight movie on the screen far ahead and obscured by rows of seating. I can't help but remember the first time I took a plain ride with Mattie.


	5. In the Light of Time

**LYRIC**

_"Somewhere in the light of time…"_

Eleven years ago I was finally adopted by a rich couple who lived in San Francisco. I was happy, yes, but, as was expected, I had to move to California to live with my new parents. I had to move to the other side of the country, away from the only two friends I ever had. After my father's death, Alfred and Matthew were the only support I had in the face of my mother's insanity. I could not bear to lose them.

I had grown up in the eastern suburbs of Syracuse, New York on the corner of Lansdale and Exeter, right across the street from Alfred's house. Alfred and Matthew's parents divorced when the two were very young, Matthew and their mother moved to Canada, to Montreal where his mother is originally from. The first few years after the divorce, the separated brothers never saw each other, but eventually their parents decided it would be better if they grew up knowing one another. It was agreed that Matthew would spend every summer in America with his brother and father. Sadly, after a few years apart Alfred had forgotten he even had a brother, let alone a twin. It's understandable, he was young after all, and toddlers don't have the best memory. Although Mattie remembered he had a brother…

It was that first summer that I met Mattie.

Alfred had many friends, even at the young age of five. It didn't take long for him to abandon his brother to play with children he already knew. Mattie was left sitting on the porch, alone, starring at his shoes. I remember running out of my house, my mother screaming at me and my father was gone so I had no one to run to. I ran across the street, only thinking to get away, but I tripped on the curb and skinned my knee.

I remember crying, pain and fear the only things that occupied my young mind, but then there was a quiet voice and a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Are you alright?" The quiet voice timidly asked me.

I looked up, and met Mattie.

We quickly became the best of friends: the girl no one liked and the boy no one remembered. The summers became blurred moments in time, tinted gold with glorious happiness. Eventually Alfred joined in our antics, but he was never as close as us two. It was Matthew who I ran to when my mother was having a fit, it was his arms that I cried in when my father died, it was him that I looked to for support when my mother re-married. He was my friend.

And then I was taken on a family trip to Germany.

And then I was finally taken from my mother.

And then I was up for adoption.

And suddenly I found that a summer had gone by without Matthew, that I was in San Francisco, and that I would never see him again. I was eleven.

My new parents were both almost always traveling for work and I was left alone in a large, expensive house, with numerous, expensive toys and everything I could ever want except a friend. I quickly decided to run away.

It took me two weeks and countless Greyhound buses but I finally got there. I stood on Alfred's porch on a summer night and rang the doorbell. Matthew answered. I hugged him. We smiled. We were happy.

Of course, Matthew and Alfred's father had to call my parents. They were happy to hear I was alive but allowed me to spend the summer at my friends' house without further fuss. They decided that perhaps they would move to Syracuse if it mattered to me so much. They were rich, and they always traveled for work anyway, it didn't matter to them.

I had to go back to San Francisco for a month before we were to move, so Matthew and his father accompanied me on the flight to make sure I got back without any more 'incidents.' Matthew and I sat next to each other and couldn't stop grinning the whole way. We were friends, partners in crime, thick as thieves. Those were the best of times.

I find that I have dosed off. My eyes open momentarily and blurrily I see Matthew staring out the window. His face is calm like usual, but he doesn't seem happy, rather he looks deeply sorrowed. I find that my eyes are wet, I don't know why, but something about him is making me cry. I roll over, trying to find a more comfortable position to sleep in my seat and snuggle my face deeper in the pillow I brought with me. It smells of home. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel a fat tear fall from my lashes. Why am I crying?


End file.
